The Patient
Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader
by summer2224
You’re her therapist. She falls in love with you. Set after Westview You’re a government, assigned therapist or counselor brought in to assess Wanda’s psyche, because no one else can get through to her.
Intimate, charged, psychological, crossing boundaries
(3731 words)
Written June, 19th 2025 ----------------------------- The clock ticks louder in the waiting room than it has any right to.
Wanda Maximoff sits perfectly still in the farthest chair from the receptionist’s desk, her posture pristine, one leg crossed over the other, heel bobbing ever so slightly in midair. She's wearing a fitted black turtleneck, sleeves pulled to her wrists, and dark slate gray jeans tucked into elegant ankle boots, heels so sharp they could pierce a throat, if she wanted them to. She always dresses like this. Impeccable. Unbothered. As if control is a garment she pulls on every morning.
But there’s the click of her jaw.
Soft, deliberate, rhythmic.
Just under the buzz of fluorescent lights and the receptionist’s mechanical typing, tap tap tap, pause, tap tap, it keeps time with the minute hand of the wall clock.
Wanda’s finger rubs against her bottom lip. Absent. Thoughtful. She’s not aware she’s doing it. Not consciously. Not as the pad of her index finger brushes once, twice, slow circles over the subtle curve of her mouth.
There’s a door to your office. It’s closed.
It’s never locked.
But today, someone else is in there. A man. Wanda watched him enter forty minutes ago. Middle aged, anxious posture. The kind who laughs too loud in the hallway to overcompensate. She hasn’t stopped watching the door since.
The receptionist types again. Tap tap. Pause. Tap.
Wanda clicks her jaw.
Her tongue presses into her molar, tension anchored in that precise spot, like it’ll hold her together. She keeps her face passive, her expression unreadable, but inside, she's pacing. Red flickers beneath her fingertips. She rubs her lip harder, smooths her pants. Counts backward from thirty. Visualizes the smell of your office: eucalyptus, old paper, you.
She shouldn’t know your perfume. She does.
The door handle shifts.
She stops clicking.
The man walks out. He nods at the receptionist, his voice low and pointless. Wanda doesn’t even glance at him. Her gaze is already on the door, half-lidded but sharp, like a blade sheathed behind her lashes.
He was in your space. He sat on her couch.
You probably smiled at him.
The receptionist looks up. "Miss Maximoff?"
Wanda rises.
Graceful. Slow. Each movement a whisper of control.
She smooths her sleeves, then walks, heels clicking, purposeful, toward the door that’s still slightly ajar.
You’re inside.
She can hear the rustle of your notes. Your soft, tired sigh. You don’t know she’s listening.
You don’t know that she sees you more clearly than you see yourself.
Not yet.
But today, maybe you will.
The door opens on a soft hinge.
You’re at your desk, back slightly turned, writing something down. Your pen glides in careful strokes. You don’t look up at first.
And Wanda, she forgets how to breathe.
You’re wearing a pencil skirt, heels that make your calves flex, and a silky white blouse tucked in just so. Elegant. Effortless. Your hair is pinned back loosely, strands falling just enough to frame your face. You look…
Beautiful.
Authoritative. Composed. Destroying her from the inside out.
Your eyes flick up, and the second they meet hers, it happens.
Wanda has to force her own eyes not to roll back into her skull.
Because your gaze pins her in place. Cold steel wrapped in velvet. Eyes that could kill, and do, every time they land on her.
She clears her throat. Her voice catches. "Doctor Y/l/n."
You smile. Professional. Kind. Dangerous.
"Miss Maximoff," you say, and motion to the couch with one hand, already closing your notebook. "Come in. Make yourself comfortable."
Wanda does.
Her heels echo once on the hardwood floor before she steps onto the rug. Her green eyes don’t leave you. Not for a second. Deep, endless, smoldering with something unspoken. She wonders if you notice the way her gaze drags over your collarbone, the slow exhale she tries to disguise when she sits.
Her auburn hair is brushed back today, clean waves tumbling over her shoulders, catching in the light like red wine. She knows how she looks. She dressed carefully. Deliberately.
She wants you to notice.
She doesn’t want to be the only one feeling like this.
But you’re calm. Always calm.
Even when you look tired. Even when the shadows beneath your eyes say you haven’t slept well in days.
Even when your hands shake, for just a moment, before you still them with practiced grace.
And Wanda sees it. She sees everything. You don’t know it yet.
But you’re her favorite subject in the room.
You move from behind your desk, walking toward your chair across from hers, not hurried, not deliberate, just effortlessly composed. Measured. Confident. The silence stretches as your heels whisper over the rug.
Wanda’s jaw tightens.
She can hear the sound of your calves brushing against each other when you sit. She watches your skirt ride just slightly higher up your thighs as you cross your legs, the fabric pulling tight over the muscle. Her eyes drop, just for a second, then flicker back up.
You’re already watching her.
Professional. Still.
Too good.
The edge of your mouth lifts in a soft smile, practiced and warm. It shouldn’t make her heart race. But it does.
Your voice--gentle, laced with honey and authority--breaks the quiet.
"How have you been since our last session, Wanda?"
Her name in your mouth. Not Miss Maximoff. Not subject. Not patient.
Wanda.
And it ruins her.
Her finger is back on her bottom lip, stroking slowly, unconsciously.
"Better," she says, the lie slipping silk-smooth off her tongue. Her gaze lingers on your lips. "Some days are quieter than others."
Your pen hovers.
You tilt your head slightly, just enough to let the light catch your cheekbone, eyes sharpening as you study her.
“You used that word last time, too. ‘Quiet.’” You let the silence hang for a moment, watch her brows tick slightly. “You said it made you uncomfortable. That it used to mean peace… but now it feels more like absence.”
Wanda’s eyes flick to yours.
Green. Sharp. Measured.
“So you were listening,” she says softly.
“I always do.”
You don’t smile. You stay still.
She draws in a breath and exhales it slowly through her nose. Her posture loosens just a fraction. It’s something.
You keep your voice level. “Can you tell me what the absence feels like today?”
Her lips part, but no words come.
Instead, she studies you, like you’re the one on trial now. Her head tilts, auburn waves shifting as she leans her weight into the arm of the couch.
“It’s not always absence,” she says eventually. “Sometimes it feels more like… being full of something I’m not supposed to hold.”
You don’t react outwardly, but the language sticks in your mind. Not loneliness. Not grief. Containment.
“What do you think that something is?”
Another pause.
Her jaw flexes.
“Need.”
That word hangs in the space like heat.
You write it down. Slowly.
Wanda watches your hand move, then flicks her gaze back to your face.
“I can’t tell if I want to be empty again,” she adds, quieter now. “Or if I want to be filled until it breaks me.”
You lift your gaze and meet hers, gently.
“Wanda… do you feel like you’re dangerous when you need something?”
Silence.
Then… just above a whisper “Yes.”
You let it sit.
You don’t interrupt the silence. You don’t rescue her from it.
When she finally speaks again, her voice is steadier. “People want things. That’s human. But when I want something… people get hurt.”
You nod once. “Is there something you want right now?”
Her tongue runs along the inside of her cheek. Her eyes darken.
She doesn’t answer.
You watch her finger press harder against her lip.
“Are you thinking of something, Wanda?” you ask.
“Not something,” she says. “Someone.”
Your throat tightens. Just slightly.
You hold the line.
“Would you feel comfortable telling me who?”
Her gaze drops, to your legs, where your skirt’s ridden slightly up again, where your notebook rests against the line of your thigh.
Then slowly, she lifts her eyes back to yours.
You hold her stare.
Still calm. Still neutral. Still professional.
But you don’t look away.
Wanda exhales through her nose. Smiles without humor. “You're good at this.”
You tilt your head. “At what?”
“Not flinching.”
Your voice stays steady. “Do I make you want to test that?”
Wanda’s laugh is soft. Disbelieving.
“A little.”
You don’t smile.
“Then let’s stay with that,” you say. “Wanting to test boundaries. Is that a pattern for you?”
She presses her tongue to her cheek again. Crosses her arms. The shift in her body language tells you she feels seen, and she doesn’t like it.
“It’s not just about control,” she says after a beat. “It’s about knowing who will stop me. And who won’t.”
“And what do you want from me in that equation?”
She stares at you. Unmoving.
“I don’t know yet,” she lies.
You see right through it. But you write nothing. Your eyes don’t leave hers. You don’t flinch, don’t react, not outwardly. Inside, something shifts. Just slightly.
You adjust in your chair. Cross your legs the other way. Flip to a clean page.
You write a single word: Transference.
Then, softly, “That sounds powerful. To feel that in this room.”
Wanda hums. Her expression unreadable now. Almost serene.
You lean back slightly, letting the silence grow. You want to see what she does with it.
“Was Westview about power?” you ask. “Or intimacy?”
Wanda’s gaze lingers on your throat as you speak.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” she says.
You consider that. “It can be. If the relationship is… unbalanced.”
“Like this one?” she says, almost immediately.
That catches you. Just a moment. A breath.
You recover. “Do you feel like our relationship is unbalanced?”
Wanda’s smile deepens. Not kind. Not cruel. Just knowing.
“You ask all the questions. You look at me like I’m a mystery you want to solve. And I answer… because I want you to keep looking.”
You pause.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I think I’m here,” Wanda says slowly, “because I want to know what your voice sounds like when you’re not being careful.”
Your pen stills.
It’s the first moment in the session where your silence says more than your words.
You watch her. Her eyes are steady. You see the spark there, challenge, longing, and something deeper: understanding.
Not of herself. Of you.
“I think we should return to Westview,” you say, tone even. “Tell me about the moment you realized it was falling apart.”
Wanda’s lips twitch. Not a smile. A flicker of something raw.
“When Vision started asking questions.”
You nod. “What did that feel like?”
Her eyes drop. Her fingers curl into her palms.
“Like being caught in a lie I told myself first.”
You write that down. The pen scratches the page.
“Was there a part of you that wanted him to know?”
She meets your gaze again. Her stare is cleaner now. Sharper.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to stop pretending. But I didn’t know how to let it go without losing everything.”
You say nothing.
Then, quietly: “You’ve lost a lot.”
Wanda laughs once, bitter. “That’s an understatement.”
You lean in slightly. Your eyes stay soft.
“And yet you’re still here.”
Her stare holds yours. “Maybe because you are.”
Your pen doesn’t move.
For once, your fingers stay still.
Your voice, when it comes, is softer. “Do you think you stay because I see you?”
Wanda doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes dip to your mouth, then lift again--green, sharp, and vulnerable.
“I think I stay because you don’t look away.”
You nod once. “Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“And if I did?”
“I’d burn the room down.”
You don’t smile. You write that down.
Then you ask, “Did you ever love Vision?”
Her jaw tightens. But not in pain, in restraint.
“I think I loved the version of me that he saw.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” she agrees. “But it was enough. Then.”
You glance up. “And now?”
Wanda exhales slowly. “Now I want someone who sees the worst parts of me and doesn’t blink.”
Your heartbeat is a drum against your ribs. You shift your weight. “Do you think that person exists?”
“I think,” she says slowly, “she might be sitting right across from me.”
You don’t look away.
You can’t. You know you should, but you don’t.
Your voice stays even, but you feel the edges of yourself beginning to fray. “What would it mean, to be seen like that?”
Wanda tilts her head, gaze narrowing slightly. “It would mean I’m real. That everything I’ve done... all the grief, the horror--it led me here. To this chair. To you.”
A pause.
She watches you too closely.
“You’ve been having nightmares again.”
You don’t answer. Not fast enough. Wanda’s lips curl, just barely.
“I can see it in your eyes today. You look more tired than usual.”
You shift. “That isn’t relevant to your session.”
“Maybe not to the session,” she says. “But it’s relevant to you.”
Your fingers tighten around the pen.
Wanda leans forward slightly. “You help me hold myself together. But who helps you?”
You exhale through your nose. “This space isn’t about me.”
“Should it be?” she asks.
There’s no malice in her tone. No mockery. Just... concern.
Genuine. Disarming.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You clear your throat. “We have seven minutes left.”
“I don’t care.”
That’s the first real rupture in her voice. It trembles with sincerity. “I don’t want to leave yet.”
You meet her eyes. Something in you flickers. Unsteady.
“I know the look of someone who’s not sleeping,” she says. “I wore it for years.”
You blink, just once. But she catches it. Of course she does.
“Let me ask something,” Wanda says, voice quiet.
You nod slowly.
“If I asked what your nightmares were about... would you tell me?”
Your breath stutters in your chest. She waits.
And for the first time since she stepped into your office, you don’t know what to say.
Your breath stutters in your chest.
She waits.
And for the first time since she stepped into your office--you don’t know what to say.
The air shifts.
Wanda watches the hesitation flicker in your eyes.
She rises.
It’s not sudden. Not aggressive. But slow. Intentional.
Her hands smooth her turtleneck at her waist, and she steps forward--just one footfall at first. Then another. The soft thud of her heels on the rug is the only sound.
You stay still. You should tell her to sit. Reassert the boundary.
But you don’t.
You can’t.
She stops directly in front of you, gaze lowered slightly, watching the way your breath catches as she steps into your space. Close. Too close.
“Wanda,” you murmur, your voice thinner than you want it to be.
She says nothing.
One hand lifts--slow, careful--and presses to the arm of your chair. Then the other. She leans in, framing you.
Not touching.
But close enough that her perfume floods your senses. Rose and something darker. Smoke and heat.
You’re caged. Her green eyes search yours.
“You’re always so composed,” she whispers. “But you’re shaking now.”
Your hands are still on your notebook, pressed flat.
“You need to return to your seat,” you say, voice soft, but not commanding. Not strong enough.
“I will,” she says. “But only if you tell me what haunts you when the lights go out.”
You try to look away.
Her hand moves, not to touch, but to hover near your face. Her fingers pause near your cheek, then trail through the air, a breath from your skin.
“Was it something from your childhood?” she asks, voice low. “Something that never left?”
You inhale sharply. She sees it.
“You look like someone who learned to be strong far too young,” Wanda murmurs. “And now you wear that strength like a wall. Even when it’s killing you.”
You whisper, “That’s enough.”
But your voice shakes. Wanda doesn’t move away. Her eyes drop to your mouth.
Then she leans in, her breath ghosting the shell of your ear.
“I see you,” she whispers. “And I’m not looking away.”
Your breath stalls in your chest. You feel it, her, everywhere. The heat of her body so close, the scent of her perfume threading into your lungs like silk and smoke. The press of her presence is overwhelming.
Your mouth opens, but no words come.
You reach for your professionalism like a lifeline. Try to sit straighter. Try to find your voice.
But you can’t remember the question you were going to ask.
Your hands tighten slightly on the arms of the chair, your notebook forgotten in your lap.
Wanda doesn’t move.
She watches you, breath slow, lashes low, a softness around her mouth that isn’t smug--it’s something else.
Certain.
“I think,” she says quietly, “you’re not used to being seen.”
You swallow.
“I see everyone,” you finally manage, your voice rough at the edges. “It’s my job.”
“But no one sees you.”
You blink.
Your hand lifts slightly, as if to gesture toward the clock, toward the exit, toward something that would put space between the two of you again. Anything. But Wanda leans forward an inch more, and your arm falters.
“You know what I think?” she murmurs.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
“I think you spend all day pulling other people apart,” she continues. “Cataloguing their pain. Making it make sense. But no one has ever asked what you’re holding inside yourself.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your mouth is dry.
“You came in here to heal me,” Wanda says, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I think I’ve been the one watching you unravel, week after week. Button by button.”
She shifts, the curve of her arm brushing lightly along the chair. Not touching. But it feels like fire.
“I think,” she breathes, “you’re more afraid of being known than I ever was.”
You close your eyes for a second. Just one.
But in that second, everything tilts.
Wanda’s voice finds you again, quiet and reverent.
“Let go, Doctor.”
You open your eyes, and she’s right there.
And you….You don’t know how to stop her.
There’s no warning, no hesitation, just heat. Soft lips against yours, demanding and intimate all at once. Her hands stay braced on the chair, her body angled just enough to cage you in without touching more than she has to.
Your breath catches, frozen, shocked, electric.
But you don’t stop her.
Your lips part beneath hers on instinct.
And Wanda groans, quiet and low in her throat like she’s been waiting a lifetime for this exact sound. Her mouth moves against yours with purpose, not desperation, like she already owns the answer you didn’t speak.
She bites your bottom lip, slowly, deliberately, and drags it between her teeth.
The sound that escapes you is soft. Broken.
And hers.
Wanda pulls back just enough to breathe the words against your mouth.
“You feel that?”
You nod, barely.
Because you do. And it’s undoing you.
You both break.
There’s no space left for rules. For ethics. For distance. The dam doesn’t crack--it shatters.
Your hand is in her hair before you register it, fingers twisting through the waves at the nape of her neck and pulling her back in. Your mouth meets hers with something deeper than permission, it’s need. Raw and consuming.
She moans into you, low and heady, hands sliding from the arms of your chair to your shoulders, your jaw, your waist. She's not careful anymore. She doesn’t have to be.
And neither do you.
Your chair scrapes slightly against the floor as she presses in harder, one knee between yours now, guiding your body back with hers, your spine brushing the cushion.
You’re not thinking, your mind is static, white-hot.
The taste of her. The smell. The sound of her breath ragged against your throat when she breaks the kiss to speak:
“I waited,” she pants. “I waited for you to stop pretending.”
You drag her down again. This time it's you who kisses with control, your teeth grazing her lip in return, and it’s her turn to gasp.
Your voice is wrecked when it comes. “You want honesty?”
She nods, breathless.
“I stopped pretending the second you walked through my door.”
The confession tears out of you, raw and irrevocable.
And Wanda
She smiles like you just gave her the world.
Then she kisses you again. Harder.
Wanda’s mouth never leaves yours as her hands reach for your blouse. Her fingers fumble for only a second before they find the first button -- and then the next, and the next. Each one undone feels like something deeper unraveling inside you.
You try to speak. To say her name. To stop this. Or maybe to beg her not to.
You don’t know which anymore.
The hem of your blouse parts. Her palm slides over the warm skin beneath, and you gasp -- sharp and instinctive.
It’s chaos. Heat and friction and the low, desperate sounds you’re both making as you stumble. Her hands on your waist, yours in her hair, your back bumping against the edge of your desk, the wall, the file cabinet -- none of it matters. Not now.
Your notebook hits the floor. Your glasses slide from your face. Her heel kicks over your chair.
You don’t care.
None of it exists except her.
And then you’re on the couch. Her couch.
She straddles your lap like she’s reclaiming something stolen from her -- something sacred. Her hands cradle your jaw, her lips hovering over yours, eyes glassy and dark with everything she’s never said.
And then she says it.
A whisper. Barely audible.
“Love me… like Vision never could.”
Your breath catches.
And your heart doesn’t just ache -- it fractures.
You raise a hand to the back of her head, gentle, reverent. Your other arm slides around her waist, pulling her closer, grounding her.
Her chest rises against yours. Waiting. Needing.
Your forehead rests against hers.
“I already do,” you whisper back.
And then you kiss her like you mean it.
Like the world outside your office never existed. Like you were made for this exact moment.
Like you’re not just healing her, but finally letting yourself break, too.